Header 2

by Edward Lee

  “On the count of three. One…two…three!”

  A salvo of grunts.

  “Good, yeah, but—shit, Melda. No offense but you’ve gained some weight!”

  “Well, I can’t help it, Paulie. Can’t walk, can’t do nothin’ but sit—er, sit, and smother people in my pussy and eat.”

  Laughter.

  A peculiar shadow hovers over the old woman’s head, then something indescribable seems to edge the top of the frame…

  “Push that big pussy open now, huh, Melda?”

  “It’s open, Paulie!”

  “One…two…three…down!”

  In a split second, the old woman’s head disappears as it is completely engulfed by a frame-filling morass of pallid flesh. A mammoth sack for a belly is observed, as well as a severely stretched wedge of pubic hair. Whatever it is, it has swallowed the entirety of the old woman’s head.

  “Give it a few seconds.”

  A few seconds tick by, then, “Now, boss?”

  “Naw. A few more…”

  “We don’t want her croakin’, do we?”

  “All right, now. One, two, three—up!”

  shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-LUCK!

  The morass is lifted off as though it has defied gravity to disgorge the woman’s head, which now looks like a perversely glistening wax mask, only semi-human. The head shudders, old gray hair slicked down. The eyelids struggle but eventually open.

  “Great! She didn’t kick. Kind of thought she would, old as she is.”

  “Proof of the resiliency of the human biological unit…”

  The old woman’s face, quite surprisingly, laughs. “Ha! That all you silly boys can do? Just wait till my son Helton gets ya! He’n his kin’re gonna fuck all yer brains ta puddin’!”

  “One, two, three—down!”

  The horrific mass re-lowers, yet again engulfing the head.

  “I’m tempted to just kill her now. I hate that old cunt.”

  “Sure, boss, but that’s the reason we shouldn’t kill her.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Okay, guys! One, two, three—up!”

  The head is re-exposed, looking a bit more weary than the first time.

  The off-screen voice directs. “Back in the chair now”—grunting—“yeah, there. Cristo, get Melda back in the Winnie.”

  “Right away, boss.”

  “Thanks, Melda.”

  “Oh, any time, Paulie! I love the feel of a head in my pussy!”

  “She still alive, Doc?”

  A manicured finger angles into the frame and touches the old woman’s slick throat. “Wait—wait, why…yes!”

  “Perfect!”

  The head lolls now, muck-shellacked and wheezing for breath, but eventually the old woman summons the last of her strength and looks right back at the camera. “Helton, my dear son! Don’t ya mind none what these Satan-worshipin’ bastards are a-doin’ ta me. I’se old and it’s way past my time, and I’se had me a wonnerful life. Just you take care, son, like I knows ya will! I knows you’ll git these fellas’n show ’em what fer! Hunt ’em down and fuck their evil heads like heads ain’t never been fucked b’fore! The Tuckton’s ain’t never lost a feud! Make the family proud like ya always done—” but then her speech is drowned out by the most shockingly vicious sound: not quite that of a chainsaw, not quite that of a lawn mower.

  The frame seems to collapse as the Alpine stump-grinder lowers. It lowers slowly, ever so slowly, first just nicking the top of the woman’s skull, coming back up, then lowering some more. The screech of metal to bone is unmentionable. Blood, brain, and bone-bits fly like goulash out of a lidless blender.

  Down and down, then, the stump-grinder lowers, and when it’s done it’s pulled away, leaving only a meaty neck-stump.

  The motor-sound cuts off. Eery silence ensues.

  “How you like them cookies, huh, Helton?” the off-screen voice inquires, and then comes a staccato of laughter…

  ««—»»

  Veronica had collapsed even before the “film’s” finish. She lay now on the floor, in a shuddering fetal position. Helton, Dumar, and Micky-Mack, on the other hand, remained standing. Staring. Wide-eyed and tearing up. What they’d just witnessed on the computer screen—in spite of the presence of morning light—somehow turned the air smoke-dark.

  No one spoke for quite some time.

  Helton passed around a bottle of some citified liquor called AsomBroso 100% Blue Agave Tequila that he’d pinched from Marshie’s mansion. They each took hearty slugs.

  “Paw?”Dumar was the first to speak. “Grandma Petunia was up’n the finest ole gal there ever was, and I—”

  Helton severed the condolence with a wave of hand. “Ain’t no words necessary, boys. Our work’s cut out fer us…”

  Tears ran freely down Micky-Mack’s face. “Unc Helton. We’se gotta get ’em back worse’n ever, we’se gotta—”

  Helton’s silencing hand rose again. “Like I done tolt ya’s before, there is one rellertive’a Paulie’s not too far from here, not too far at all—”

  Micky-Mack’s fist banged the table. “Then let’s go! Now!”

  Helton’s face looked as dark as the air. “We’se’ll go, all right. But we gots ta wait till tonight. In the meantime, we needs ta go back ta that big store, that one calt the Home Depot…”

  — | — | —

  Chapter 15

  (I)

  It wasn’t quite a vegetative state that plagued Veronica for the coming hours. It was some sort of temporary semi-catatonia that left her staring at the truck’s metal walls with virtually no thoughts crossing her mind. The men seemed to be driving through a town, not the backwoods, and every so often, Veronica peered up and out the windshield, she saw but barely noticed garlands of Christmas lights. Then: Christmas, the single word occurred to her.

  She didn’t know what it meant.

  Veronica rocked comfortably back and forth as the truck shifted gears. Were they parking? An errant shift of gaze showed her something familiar: golden…arches? But why would that seem familiar? As they turned and pulled around, something else caught her gaze, a large yellow sign with black letters: BEST BUY. Veronica stirred.

  The truck stopped.

  Another section of a sign could be seen: HOME DEPOT.

  Veronica whimpered.

  “Micky-Mack? See that place over yonder. With them yeller rainbow-type things?”

  “Yeah, Unc.”

  “That there’s a restaurant, and it’s a famous one. Ain’t never et there myself but I’se know folks who have—it’s calt the Mack-Donald’s. Just you go on over’n pick us up a bunch’a viddles. I’m sick’a beans’n spaghetti’n fancy tater chips. Plus, Veronica might perk up if’n she got some citified grub in her breadbasket. Here’s some money—”

  “Oh, I got me some money, Unc. Let me contri-bit—”

  “No, boy. Use Maw’s money. It’s what she’d want. Meantime me’n Dumar’ll be in the Home Depot.”

  “Shore, Unc.”

  The boy disembarked. Helton’s concerned face hovered over Veronica.

  “Veronnerka? Hon? You’se all right?”

  Mouth opened, Veronica nodded.

  “I’se sorry I showed ya that ugly movie but, like I said, I needed ya ta understand why we’se doin’ this…”

  Veronica nodded.

  “We’se’ll be right back. Whine you just try ta take yerself a nap?”

  Veronica nodded.

  Helton sighed, then eventually left the truck with his son.

  McDonald’s, she thought diffusely. Home Depot…

  Something tiny seemed to crackle in her brain.

  Best Buy…

  She stood up—at least as much as she could given the handcuff—though she didn’t know why. She tried to peer out the windshield, but crooked over like that she could only see an edge of the semi-full parking lot. Daylight raged. Straining her neck…she detected movement…

  A figure in a blue shirt—a familiar blue shirt
—walked briskly through the rows of parked cars. It never occurred to her, though, that this person’s blue shirt was identical to her own. The figure was a slender man with spiked-up hair; more familiarity seemed to whisper around in her head. He was sticking sheets of paper beneath the windshield wipers of each car, and in an action so coincidental as to be completely unbelievable, a gust of wind picked up, detached one of the sheets from a windshield and blew it directly against the windshield of the black truck!

  Veronica read the sheet, obviously a sale-flyer: OPEN ‘TIL MIDNIGHT XMAS EVE! BLOWOUT HOLIDAY SALE ONLY AT BEST BUY!

  Then the sheet fluttered, and blew away.

  Best Buy, Veronica thought. She watched the spike-haired man weaving between parked cars, and for some reason unbeknownst to her, she thought, Archie…

  Veronica sat back down, somehow contentedly confused, if such a state of mind could even exist. Had she remained standing for less than a minute more, the man in the blue shirt—Archie—would’ve been able to see her when he placed a flyer beneath the truck’s wiper.

  She looked dully up when Micky-Mack returned. He set down an armful of white bags that smelled of fast food.

  “Well, hey there, Veronnerka! Feelin’ better?”

  Veronica stared at him.

  “Got’cha some viddles, yes sir! Probably more what yer used to—citified food, I guess this is. Smells good, huh?”

  Veronica nodded.

  Micky-Mack sat in the fold-down chair, but before he did so, Veronica’s retinas registered scarlet streaks along the chair’s back. It did not occur to her that this was dried blood.

  Micky-Mack rubbed his crotch for no apparent reason. “Don’t’cha worry none, Veronnerka. You’se’ll get ta go home soon, just like Unc Helton promised.” He cast her a discerning glance. “Say, Veronnerka? Them tits’a yers are, like, dandy tits. You wouldn’t mind showin’ to me again, would’ja?”

  Veronica shook her head and raised her top.

  Micky-Mack’s cheeks billowed. “Dang, girl! They’se get better ever time! Them there’s what we call Jiminee Christmas tits!” He rubbed his crotch more concertedly. “Say, you ain’t seemed ta mind none tweakin’ our peckers. How’s about tweakin’ mine right now?”

  Veronica nodded.

  “Dang, you are such a nice gal!” and Micky-Mack stood up in a flash, extracted his malodorous penis, and slipped it unhesitantly into Veronica’s mouth.

  “Yeah, back’n forth, just like that, just like we up’n taught ya…”

  Rhythmic sucking sounds clicked. The penis hardened immediately, and not once did she wince when each stroke slid well past her tonsils.

  Micky-Mack’s breath raced. “Dang-dang-dang! That’s just, I say that’s just shorely the best dick suckin’ I’se ever had…” His groin was tensing. “You know, it’s damn refreshin’ ta have my dick tended to natural-like. All these headers we’se havin’? Shit, they’se feel great, but still… Just somethin’ unnatural ’bout fuckin’ heads,” but then his words stalled. “Aw, shit! I weren’t supposed ta say that! Unc Helton, he’d whup my ass good if’n he knowed I just said that so’s…Veronnerka? How’s ’bout that’ll be our secret, okay? Don’t tell Unc Helton I’se mentioned nuthin ’bout headers. Okay?”

  Mouth stuffed, Veronica nodded.

  Now Micky-Mack was breathing between his teeth. “And ya know, as good as yer blowjobs is now…I’se just gots ta git me my nut. Can that be our secret too, Veronnerka? I’se cum in yer mouth but you don’t tell Unc Helton? That okay?”

  Veronica nodded, sucking with mechanical precision.

  “Aw-aw-aw,” he grunted, tensing all the more. “I gots ta warn ya, though. Me? I’se belt out a lot of peckjuice, enough ta likely fill yer whole mouth up. And if’n ya spit it out, Unc Helton’ll see’n, well, you know. So’s how’s ’bout swallerin’ all my nut. Okay?”

  Veronica nodded.

  “Git ready now, hon. I’se just about ta, just about ta—” but the sound of rough voices made Micky-Mack glance terrified over his shoulder. Helton and Dumar were opening the back doors!

  “What a fuckin’ kick in the ass!” he whispered fierce, and had no choice but to awkwardly pack his unspent erection back into his pants. He got back in the chair—legs crossed, of course—just as Helton came inside.

  Helton stared. “Boy? What’s goin’ on here?”

  “Why, nothin’, Unc Helton. I’se just come back from the Mack-Donald’s with the viddles ya told me ta fetch.”

  Helton’s eyes narrowed. “Then how come Veronnerka’s tits are out?”

  “Aw, hail, Unc. They’se so nice lookin’ I’se just asked her ta show me again, that’s all.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Shore that’s all, Unc.” Micky-Mack looked to Veronica. “Ain’t that right, Veronnerka? That’s all?”

  Veronica nodded.

  “Oh,” Helton said. Then he sniffed. “Dang, sumpin’ shore smells good.”

  “Citified food,” Dumar remarked with enthusiasm. He was still just outside the open doors, clattering with something.

  “Let’s all get our breadbaskets filt so’s we’ll have plenty’a energy tonight,” but as Helton approached the fast-food bags, Micky-Mack had to ask, “So, Unc. What all you buy at the Home Depot?”

  Dumar came inside, hefting the purchases: three heavy-duty shovels, of the sort that grave-diggers might use.

  (II)

  The big black truck had parked in yet another convenient and well-secluded clearing in the woods. From there, the men had slipped away into the cool night, their mysterious task still unrevealed. Were they still in Pulaski town limits?

  Who could tell?

  Not even two hours had expired before the men, shovels clattering, returned to the truck. This was precisely at the stroke of midnight, when December 23rd officially became Christmas Eve…

  They entered through the rear doors, speaking little. Was it excitement that quelled conversation, or unease?

  It was both.

  Veronica, still foundering glassy-eyed in her semi-catatonic state, had been handcuffed to her usual place during the “headers”: the front passenger seat, facing the dense, nighted woods. A trail led beyond, the same trail that the men had just returned from. Had one of them been carrying a bundle or some sort?

  Yes.

  They closed the doors, then flicked on the lamp in back. Helton stuck his head forward. “We’se back, Veronnerka. Right now we’se got ta…get things ready, then we’se’ll be up fer a…well, you know… a quick tweakin’. All right?”

  Veronica nodded, staring off.

  “And untils then, I’ll just close this here curtain like always. Remember now, don’t’cha be lookin’ back here ’cos what ya’d see would likely…mess ya up in the head more’n ya already are. Okay?”

  Veronica continued staring forward.

  “Veronnerka? Hon? Ya ain’t gonna look back here, are ya?”

  Veronica shook her head no.

  Helton closed the curtain.

  Clattering. Low, indiscernible talk. Then came the now-familiar whine of the hole-saw. It sounded once, paused, then sounded again. After a longer pause, someone said, “Dang. Are we really gonna do this?”

  “Just ‘member what Paulie did ta yer son, and yer wife, and yer grandmaw…”

  The curtain fluttered, then all three men crowded into the front, their limp penises out.

  “Veronnerka? Can we’se git our tweakin’ now?”

  Veronica nodded and with no reluctance nor complaint stuck her tongue out over her bottom teeth, pulled her upper lip over her top teeth, and began to fellate their foul-smelling members. In moments, all three were painfully erect and cringing just short of orgasm.

  “Good girl,” Helton said. “We’se cain’t thank ya enough. See..this is rough work we got goin’ in back.” He put cotton balls in her ears, then repaired to the rear of the truck with the others. The curtain was re-closed.

  Veronica continued to stare forward. If the q
uestion What are they doing back there? ever occurred to her, it was entirely subconscious. She still didn’t know where she was and she scarcely knew who she was. As her eyes acclimated, however, her vision began to identify aspects of her surroundings: the trees, mostly bereft of leaves; crisp moonlight glimmering through boughs’ and that trail just before her began to surrender details. It seemed to incline. Without forethought, she squinted, focusing…

  Yes, that trail rose to a barely visible hill and a perimeter of iron fencework. Here the moon shimmered more brightly. Past the fencework she was able to make out…gravestones.

  A…cemetery…

  Veronica blinked. Then an interesting and highly unlikely thing happened:

  One of those cotton balls…fell out of her ear.

  She heard:

  “So’s we gonna double-fuck this ‘un like we done Paulie’s Maw?”

  “Nope. We’se gonna triple-fuck it.”

  “A triple? But, Paw. How’se can we triple-fuck it if’n ya only drilt two holes?”

  “Hand me that hack-saw, son, and I’ll show ya.”

  The grisliest sound ensued, very much that of a saw-blade cutting through meat.

  “See, I got me this idea that headers is most effective if’n ya do it a little bit different ever time. I think the word is…variety. See, boys, to piss Paulie off the most we can, we gots ta have variety in how we fuck the heads of his kin. Cain’t never be the same old thing. So’s…here’s what we’se gonna do, and thank God Veronnerka recommended I buy this tripod along with the fancy movin’-picture camera. You boys ready? Good? Now, see, what I’se gonna do is I’se gonna stick my dick up its neck-hole first—ah, yeah, like that. It’s a little cold now, fellas, just so ya know—been in the ground since last summer.”

  “Paw! Shee-it, this is nifty! I’se can see the end’a yer dick in its mouth!”

  “Uh-huh. Like I said. Variety.”

  “But, Unc, if it’s been in the ground since last summer, hows come it ain’t all gone ta rot?”

  “Well, Micky-Mack, that’s a good question, and the answer is ’cos it’s been embalmed. ‘S’what rich folks do when their kin die—they embalm ’em. Special preservatives they pump in, so’s it don’t rot.”